


I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees

by dappledawndrawn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angels, Bargaining, Crossroads, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Fallen Angels, Faustian Bargain, Guardian Angels, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's blink-and-you'll-miss-it and not central to the story., M/M, Road Trips, Sterek Bingo, Sterek Bingo 2019, Urban Legends, kind of? it all takes place at a rest stop okay, retroactively realized this fits the 'legends' tag for, so sure we'll go with that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-02-15 21:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dappledawndrawn/pseuds/dappledawndrawn
Summary: Stiles is a crossroads demon operating out of a rest stop Subway, Derek is a guardian angel whose family has passed on. When he starts helping the needy that pass through - and refusing Stiles' bargains - the Jacob Campbell Southbound Rest Area gets interesting. Well, more interesting than it already was.(I don't think this is crack, but I've been wrong before.)





	1. Chapter 1

There's a local legend that the rest stop where the interstate meets Route 4 is a good place to make requests. 

For most people, that's a load of bullshit. A lot of local teenagers interpret it as "this is where you can find drugs." The desperate make a pilgrimage, just in case. Most of them end up being right. At the Jacob Campbell Southbound Rest Area, you tend to find what you're looking for.  

In the wan days of late summer, when the grasses are all golden-grey and dry and the air is full of dust, Derek finds himself on a worn picnic bench by the gas station. It's been so bright and dry lately that all the color seems leached out of the world, and Derek feels the same way. Greyed out and dry and listless. 

It's been years. Years since the house fire that stole his charges. He expected something to happen. He'd be recalled, reassigned, or at least reprimanded. But it's worse. He's never heard of a guardian failing their charges quite this badly, and apparently the punishment is this: nothing. It's particularly cruel to strand him here.  

They don't call the people they guard "charges" for nothing. Without someone to watch over, his power is pretty limited. And with no one to protect, there's not much for him to do, anyway. So he wanders, waiting for that scant power to wear out, but it seems to have stopped weakening lately. He's literally hit rock bottom. 

Hence the rest stop. There's not a lot of traffic through here, but it's widely varied. If he can find a person, or a family, with a guardian, maybe he can... Well, his plan changes day to day. Sometimes he's sure he'll plead his case, other times he imagines marching up and tearing them a new one – how could they not notice someone missing from their ranks? Surely they know what happened to him. Realistically, he'll probably do nothing. He's seen guardians a handful of times since the fire, and avoided them every time. 

Still, it feels different now. He wasn't much of a guardian, even when his charges were alive, but now that he's tapped out, he's desperate enough to be bold. Maybe. He thinks. 

The rest stop is fairly unimpressive – gas station, convenience store, Subway, ancient playground equipment on top of a dried out patch of grass. There are two cars in the parking lot. One for the gas station, one for the Subway, he supposes. A quarter mile away, cars streak by on the highway, passing the exit over and over without stopping. Derek resigns himself to being here a while. It's not like he has anywhere else to go. 

Time works... differently. For guardians, that is. Before the fire, he always felt divorced from its flow. And when he had charges, he could sort of evade the straight-lined pace of time. When he needed a little extra time to nudge Cora out of the way of a dropped pot of boiling water, time went slow and pliable and sticky like molasses, giving him plenty of time to distract her so she'd step out of the path. Otherwise, things flowed quickly until the next time he was needed. 

Without a job to do, or anyone to do it for, the steady drumbeat of hours, days, weeks – he just slips by it. There's nothing to slow down for, now, so he sits on the picnic bench and watches cars pull in, gas up, and drive away. The Subway is surprisingly popular, for its location. He wonders how many miles you'd have to drive to find another restaurant. 

It takes a bit – maybe a few days – for him to realize that a lot of the people stopping in to Subway leave without sandwiches. His grip on time isn't the greatest, but it doesn't seem like they stay long enough to eat. Once it's dawned on him, it's hard to ignore. A thin kid in a hoodie pulls up to the Subway, and steps inside. Derek hauls himself up off the bench, across the parking lot, and follows him. 

The Subway is small, with fake-wood tiles and buzzing fluorescent lights, and the single employee looks bored as hell. Her eyes flicker over him and then move on, which he's used to – they can  _see_  him, but he typically fails to register to the mortal eye. Despite the vegetable prints on the walls and, the inside of the Subway is just as colorless and drawn as the world outside. 

The kid in the black hoodie has slid into a booth without ordering. He's seated opposite – someone. Derek's surprised. He hadn't thought anyone else was there. And come to think of it, there are three cars outside. One gas station employee, one Subway worker, and the hoodie kid. And yet there's a fourth soul in here, Derek's staring at the back of his head. 

Just as he thinks it, the figure turns, and Derek takes two steps back. He looks like a kid, too, maybe early twenties. His eyes are the color of whiskey – they've got the same rich burn, and they're the most vivid thing he's seen in a week. There's something about his upturned nose and sharp cheeks that's unsettling. Derek's skin prickles. There may only be three souls at the rest stop. The stranger smiles, slow and deliberate, and then turns back to the hoodie kid. 

"So, what are you looking for?" He asks. Derek walks over to the two-person table across the aisle from them, eyes fixed on the stranger. He gives Derek a sideways glance and a wink. 

"Uh, weed." The kid says, shuffling his hands. "It's not all for me, just – I'm throwing a party." 

"And what's it worth to you?" The stranger asks, eyeing the kid like a predator. Derek has the urge to intervene, to say  _Don't answer that._  But he doubts the kid even knows he's here. 

"What kind of question is that?" The kid fires back, guard up. "Are you a cop?" 

"I am not a cop." The stranger says solemnly, but Derek gets the sense he's very amused by the question. 

"My friend Marcus came through, like two weeks ago. Said you charged him $40?"  

The stranger nods. "I remember Marcus. Tell me about your party." 

"I dunno, man, it's a party." The kid says. "My parents are out of town. I invited a few friends over." 

"Anyone in particular?" 

The kid narrows his eyes, then says "There's this one girl. I'm hoping she'll be there, but it's chill if she's not. We're just trying to have a good time." Across the table, he stranger considers him for a long moment. Studies him. 

"Alright. You can have what you want for $40 and a promise." He says. 

"A promise?" 

"Take a chance on this girl. Ask her to come, specifically. And make a move when she gets there."  

"Uh, sure man." The kid rubs at the back of his neck, and glances over at the Subway employee. She's not even looking at them, watching some video on her phone. 

"You should text her now." The stranger says, and his tone makes it clear it's not a suggestion. The kid stares for a long moment, then pulls out his own phone and begins to text. 

"You happy?" He asks. 

"Over the moon. Now, $40, and you can have this." From seemingly nowhere, there's a bag of weed on the table between the two of them. The kid's too busy putting away his phone to realize how it's gotten there – or how it's  _not_ gotten there. He drops two crumpled twenties on the table and sweeps the bag into his hoodie pocket. "Have a good weekend!" The stranger says brightly, as the kid stands to leave. 

"Sure, man, you too." He says. With one last glance around the Subway, he drifts out the door. Derek's left staring at the stranger, who picks up the bills, faces them the same way, and starts smoothing them out on the edge of the table. 

"You don't have to sit way over there, you know, I don't bite." He says, without looking Derek's way. 

"I don't think I believe you." Derek says. 

"That sounds like a 'you' problem." The stranger responds. "I’m Stiles." 

"What the hell is a Stiles?" Derek hisses, even though he's got a pretty good idea. 

"Not a guardian, that's for sure." Stiles laughs, finally turning to look at him. "But you're not the kid's, or you would have stopped that. And you're not hers -" he nods to the Subway cashier, "or I'd have seen you around here before. Casey works Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday, you know." 

"I didn't know." Derek says. This guy's too nonchalant, it's unnerving. "I can't believe you stole a soul for, what, half an ounce of weed?" 

Stiles reels back like he's shocked. "Stole a  _soul_? Are you  _insane_?" He asks. "I took $40! And an act of courage!" 

"An 'act of courage'?" Derek asks, incredulous. 

"I made him text the girl! There's always a girl, for guys like him. But I didn't take his  _soul_ , I’m not a  _monster_." 

"You're a demon – that's worse." Derek hisses, glancing over his shoulder at the cashier. When he looks back, Stiles is rolling his eyes. 

"She doesn't care, dude." He says. "Look at this." He stands up, plants one foot on the table, and hauls himself up, arms raised over his head.  

"I’m a crossroads demon!" He shouts from the table. "And this guy's a guardian angel with no one to guard! Straight up angels and demons shit is happening in this Subway!"  

The cashier looks at them and says "Sir, could you sit down?" When Stiles steps off the table and slides back into the booth, she returns her attention to her phone, like it never even happened. 

"See, Casey doesn't give a shit." Stiles says. "I made sure of that early – I don't need her tangled up in any of this." 

"And what exactly is this?" Derek asks.  

"My business, of course." Stiles replies. "Whatever you want can be yours, for a price. And it's not  _just_  souls. As you've seen." He grins. "Honestly, I haven't taken a soul in ages. It takes a lot for someone with a problem that big to find me." 

"So what, you're just a drug dealer?" Derek asks. 

"Honestly – yeah, mostly a drug dealer." Stiles shrugs. "I accidentally got a reputation for that, and I'm not going to turn away business. Besides, better me than the street dealers, right? I'm not gonna cut your shit with fentanyl, I'm not bankrolling the cartels. Really, I'm the best alternative." 

"You're... surprisingly open about all this." Derek says, frowning.  

"Half the world can't see you, and the other half wouldn't believe you if you tried to tell them the truth." Stiles shrugs. "You're not much of a risk." He studies Derek for a long moment, then says "When you first came in, I thought you were with him. Then, I thought – well, I thought maybe you were here to see me." 

"I don't have a soul to trade you." Derek says. Then, as an afterthought "Or $40." 

"I take cards." Stiles laughs, throwing his legs into the aisle so they're pointed right at Derek and dropping his elbows onto his knees. "Among other forms of payment." He's staring up from under his eyelashes, and Derek is entirely uncomfortable with the smoldering warmth there. 

"You don't have anything I want." Derek says. "So no deal." And with that, he stands up, pushes his chair in, and walks back out into the heat. Through the booth's window, he can see Stiles, watching him. He stalks back across the parking lot, to his picnic bench by the playground, and resolves to wait it out. 

The Subway closes for the night, and Casey (who works Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday), heads home. One of the gas station night shift guys – the owner's son, Derek thinks – pulls up and takes over in the station. The day guy stands outside, smoking a cigarette, its end glowing orange in the night. 

"Nasty habit, isn't it?" A voice asks, and when Derek wheels, Stiles is perched on the opposite end of the picnic table, looking out onto the highway. Derek stands and takes a few steps back, but Stiles doesn't turn to look at him. A car's headlights disappear behind his shoulders, then flash to life on the other side.  

"You're literally a drug dealer." Derek reminds him. 

"I don't  _condone_  it, though." Stiles protests, waving a vague hand. "Besides, that doesn't even get you high." 

"Are you going to bother me now?" Derek asks. There are other rest stops, he could move on. 

Stiles turns, then, to look at him. It could be his own apprehension, but those brown eyes seems to almost glow in the dark. "Are you bothered?" He asks. 

"Yes." Derek snaps. "Get out of here." 

"What will you give me if I do?" Stiles asks, smug, and Derek shakes his head. "Seriously, it's not a big ask, I wouldn't take much." 

"I'm not making any deals with you, so you might as well leave." 

"That's not the kind of bargaining I'm interested in." Stiles whines. He studies Derek, half his face lit from the gas station canopy. "But you're not in a bargaining mood, are you?" 

"No." Derek confirms. 

"That's okay." Stiles says, standing up. "You and I, we've got nothing but time." And then he's gone. 

Derek could move on. He really could. There's nothing tethering him to the crossroads, not like Stiles. So it would be easy to pack up and move along. But he doesn't. He stays parked on his picnic bench, memorizing the schedules of the various gas station and Subway employees, watching the ebb and flow of people, day in and day out. He's gotten good at telling who's stopping for a sandwich, and who's headed in to make a deal. Some nights, when the Subway is closed, Stiles  meets with travelers on another picnic bench, just on the other side of the playground equipment. He always passes over a plastic bag full of something and sends them on their way. 

Other nights, when he doesn't have any business to attend to, Stiles comes to sit on his bench. Mostly, he antagonizes Derek until he's asked to leave. He always offers a few deals, but Derek's not dumb or desperate enough to engage. Once the Subway opens up, he heads inside to push drugs and petty favors. Derek wonders, against his better judgement, where he goes the rest of the nights. 

About a week and a half in, a dark green sedan pulls into the gas station with blue smoke billowing out  the tail pipe. Derek recognizes the smell, but the girl driving – she's maybe twenty – is clearly distraught. He hauls himself to his feet and walks up to the car. 

"You alright?" He asks. She stares at him for a moment. "I know a thing or two about cars, maybe I could help?" 

"You don't have to do that." She says, holding the passenger's side door between the two of them. 

"I think you're burning oil." He says. "That's the smoke, and the smell." 

"Oh." She says. 

"If you pop the hood, I can take a look." He offers. The girl regards him for another long moment, then leans into the car and pulls the hood release. 

Derek opens the hood and props it up as if he's done this a million times. He focuses on the girl – her fear, her uncertainty, her need – and feels a little lighter for the first time in months. She may not be his charge, but he can still help. 

He doesn't have any tools, and nothing resembling money to  _get_  tools, but he has his hands, and a lingering bit of blessing, so he inspects the engine. There's bubbling oil on one of the valve stem seals, which would explain the oil. He runs a few fingers over the seals, and wills them to close. For the first time in years, he feels the blessing take. 

"Where are you headed?" He asks from under the hood. 

"Home from college." She calls back. "I'm visiting my dad." 

Derek's never been one for stereotypes, but odds are good that her dad will be able to fix this a little more permanently. So Derek closes the hood, taps it twice, and says "Start it up." 

The engine turns over, and there's no blue smoke, no burning-oil smell. The girl grins, and steps out of the car.  

"I don't have any cash, but I can buy you something inside, if you want." She says hesitantly. 

"Don't worry about it." Derek says, and then holds up a hand as she goes to protest. "No, seriously. Just get home safe." 

"Thank you, so much, sir." She says, and gets back into the car. Derek grabs a paper towel from the windshield washing supplies as she puts it in reverse and carefully backs up towards the exit. 

"That was unfair." Comes a voice from behind him, and Derek isn't surprised, when he turns around, that Stiles is there, leaning against pump #5.  

"How so?" Derek asks, wiping the oil from his hands. 

"They usually end up coming to me for help." Stiles explains, watching the girl pull out of the parking lot. "How long will that fix hold up?" 

"It'll get her home." Derek says, tossing the paper towel into pump #5's trash can. "I can't do much more than that." 

"You're a minor miracle." Stiles observes dryly. When Derek makes his way back to the bench, he follows. "You never told me your name." 

"What will you give me for it?" Derek counters, and Stiles' face lights up. This may have been a bad idea, now that he's thinking about it. 

"Whatever you want." Stiles says, uncharacteristically earnest. 

"You don't have anything I want." Derek reminds him. 

"I could." Stiles protests. "I could get you something you want."   
   
"I highly doubt that." Derek says, sitting.  

Stiles studies him for a long moment. "I've never seen a guardian without, y'know, a – a person."   
   
"We call them charges." Derek supplies. "And my watch ended a few years ago." 

"Don't you usually get called back?" Stiles asks. "Reassigned?" 

"Maybe I'm retired." Derek says. 

"You're not. You're not much older than I am." Stiles says. "Besides, I don't think your kind does retire." 

"How do you know how old I am?" Derek asks. 

"Tell me your name and I'll tell you." Stiles grins, triumphant. 

"Tell me how you know, and  _maybe_  I'll tell you my name." Derek counteroffers. 

Stiles gives him another long look. "I usually expect payment upfront, and I don't work on contingency." He says. "But for you? I'll make an exception. Knowing things makes deals easier. So we just sort of... know. Things. About people." Stiles says, wheeling his hands. "I know about how old you are, I know what you want most, I know what you're afraid of, that kind of thing." 

Derek wants to ask another question, but he gets the sense it'll turn into another deal, so instead, he says "Prove it." 

Stiles' eyes glitter, and he swears under his breath before he says "You want to go home, and you're afraid you'll never get there." He says. "That was well played, by the way. Now tell me your name."   
   
"Derek." He says, reflexively, even if the order makes him uncomfortable. "My name's Derek." 

"It's good to meet you, Derek." Stiles says. He stands to leave. "A pleasure doing business with you." And then he's gone. 

Derek gets the feeling that he's made a terrible mistake.  _Give the devil an inch,_  the old saying goes,  _and he'll take a mile._  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: alcohol use, suicide mention, see end notes for details

They work out an unsteady truce. Derek stays away from the sandwich shop during the day. For all that he feels driven to help, his energy is limited, and watching Stiles sell dime bags to local kids without being able to effect events at all is emotionally exhausting. Half the time, the 'customers' can't even see him. So he keeps his distance and haunts his bench, earning a wave and a half-smile from the gas station clerks as they rotate through their shifts. If anyone finds it odd that he's there all the time, they don't seem to mention it. But then again, with Stiles next door, they've surely seen stranger things.

When the Subway closes, Stiles will often stop into the gas station's convenience store to buy... Things. The first few times, it's an unremarkable haul - just snacks, and he joins Derek on the bench with his arms full of Funyuns and beef jerky. Derek doesn't really need to eat, and he certainly doesn't want to eat any of that, so he lets Stiles gorge himself and politely ignores the fact that his breath is _rank_.

Stiles' purchases occasionally get really weird, like three quarts of synthetic motor oil and a vaguely Native American looking statue of a horse. At first, Derek suspects Stiles is just trying to fuck with him, but after sitting on the end of Derek's bench for twenty minutes, chatting about the storm that blew through that afternoon, Stiles gathers up his spoils, carefully tucking the ceramic buckskin under his arm, and walks off into the night.

The next night, when Derek mentions the purchases, Stiles seems to have forgotten them completely.

"If this is a joke, it's a really weird one." Derek says.

"I swear, man, I don't remember buying – what, Penzoil and a horse statue? What did the horse look like?"

"It looked like -" Derek remembers a blanket fort, Cora drinking hot chocolate, the soft buzz of a TV "Have you ever seen that kids' movie, Spirit?"

"Yeah, of course, all these years stuck in the crossroads have really lent themselves to my interest in cinema." Stiles rolls his eyes.

"It's sort of yellow." Derek says, shrugging. "With black."

Stiles considers him for a long moment. "Yeah, I guess I kind of remember. I don't know, man, they give me all this money and it's not like I have anywhere else to spend it." He stares at the convenience store for a long moment. "If you ever need a loan, let me know."

"Probably won't." Derek says, and grins. The western sky still has a bit of a glow to it – the memory of the sun – but they're mostly lit by the ever-present glow of the gas station lights. Stiles has been laying flat on his back on the lower bench for thirty minutes, and Derek's up on the table with his knees pulled tight to his chest. An exhausted-looking lady in a minivan is filling up her tank under the wash of lights. She doesn't seem to notice either of them.

"I'm going to ask you a question." Stiles warns, waving a hand. Derek appreciates the advanced notice. "Could you leave here? Or are you stuck?"

Derek considers him: his whiskey-brown eyes aimed up at the stars, unfocused, the fraying hem of his t-shirt, the scattering of moles across his face and arms, the artless disarray of his hair. He looks young, and painfully human in the washed out flourescents. But he's not.

Instead of answering, Derek stretches his legs out and leans back, laying out on the picnic table. If he looks to the right, he can see Stiles' feet, and the tired lady with pumping gas beyond. If he looks left, he can see the pulsing glow of the highway, and then nothing to the light-smudged horizon, still glowing oh-so-faintly in the late summer evening. And straight up, stars. They're a little muted from the rest stop lights, but it's far enough away from any major city that there are too many to count. If he walked off into the dusty not-quite-desert that surrounds them, just far enough to lose the rest stop, he'd see the Milky Way. He's not sure how he knows this.

"That's fair." Stiles says after a while. Derek assumes he's referring to the silence, and the unanswered question. Derek's pretty sure he could leave, if he really wanted to, but why? For what purpose? He'd have to go to the next city down the road on foot, and even when he got there, it wasn't as if he had a plan. Or a purpose. This was as good a place as any.

Without any warning, Stiles hauls himself to his feet and starts brushing the bench-dust off his pants.

"Where are you going?" Derek asks.

"I want to see the horse." Stiles says, and disappears into the convenience store. Derek watches until shift change, and then until morning, when the Subway opens – Stiles never comes out.

Derek comes to expect a visit each night after the Subway closes. But it's difficult not to feel, well, _transactional_ when talking to Stiles. He doesn't agree to any more outright deals, but every question he asks requires him to be willing to answer a question in return, and any failure to honor their unspoken agreement leads to Stiles leaving in a huff. It's not always a bad thing. Derek's been drifting, largely alone and almost entirely unseen, for a while now. And Stiles isn't exactly easy company. Sometimes Derek finds himself goading Stiles into getting frustrated, just so he'll leave.

"You know I'll go, if you ask me to." Stiles says, once, turning around as he walks back out into the night.

"I don't like to ask you for things." Derek responds simply, inspecting his fingernails.

"No deals on that one." Stiles says, like a promise. "No collateral. If you want me to go, I'm gone. At least for a while."

"I'll keep that in mind." Derek says, and he means it.

It's a few more days before someone runs into car trouble again. Derek is startled into focus by the _bang_ of a backfiring engine and makes his way across the parking lot to help. Through the Subway window, he can see Stiles watching him.

It's a middle-aged, professional looking guy in a Jag this time around, and he doesn't hesitate when Derek offers to help. The problem is less straightforward, but Derek is _needed_ and so he puzzles out a solution, passes his hands over the motor, and wills everything together.

"You'll want to get this into a shop straight away." Derek warns the guy, who nods enthusiastically without saying a word.

Once the hood is closed and the car is started up again, Derek accepts the man's handshake, and comes away with a crinkled fifty dollar bill in his palm.

"I don't want this." Derek says, offering it back. "Really, I don't have any use for it."

But the man just laughs and says "Good Samaritan like you? I'm sure you'll find someone who does." And then he drives away.

Derek stares at the cash for a moment before smoothing it out, folding it, and tucking it away in his pocket.

When he gets back to his bench, Stiles is there.

"That guy was a douchebag." He says conversationally.

"I'm not sure you have any room for judgement there." Derek reminds him, taking the bench opposite.

"I have excellent judgement." Stiles says. "Comes with the territory."

Derek considers that for a moment, while Stiles worries at a splinter in the table. Out on the road, someone's brakes squeal, but there's no tell-tale _thump_ of an accident.

"Seems like you've been here a while." Derek says, careful not to make it a question. Stiles notices, because he always notices, but has the grace to ignore it.

"Probably, like, five or six years? Hard to say." He replies. "My sense of time isn't great."

"Mine either." Derek admits. "I don't actually know what year it is right now."

"Let's go check." Stiles says, hooking a thumb at the convenience store.

"What, you think we can just ask Diego what year it is, and he'll think that's normal?" Derek asks.

"No, dumbass, they sell newspapers." Stiles says, already on his feet. "Are you coming or not?"

Diego doesn't even seem to notice when they come in, which doesn't surprise Derek, but may have mildly offended Stiles, who starts muttering immediately.

While Stiles walks back to the drink cooler, Derek looks at the stack of newspapers just inside the doors. The headline is of no interest to him, but the date – it's a surprise. He had hoped it would be a short while, made to feel endless by its emptiness. Instead, the dull ache that's always settled in his chest starts to deepen and spread, curling his shoulders forward with the pain of it.

"What's the verdict?" Stiles calls from the back of the store. Derek's not sure how to respond, so he doesn't, just thumbs the curling edge of the front page and waits. "Derek?" Stiles calls again from the back.

Derek's very aware that Stiles is a crossroads demon at the epicenter of his power, but it still unnerves him when inhuman things happen. Like Stiles appearing from nowhere at his elbow, flicked on like a lightswitch. One moment: nothing. The next: Stiles, an inch from his side, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. Derek's so surprised at Stiles' sudden appearance, that it won't be until later that he's surprised that he didn't take a step back. Instead, he stares at the newspaper a little longer and composes himself.

"It's been a while." He admits quietly.

"Like, a short while, or...?" Stiles asks, unusually soft.

"Nine years." He shakes his head. Stiles studies him in silence for a moment. Derek's not sure what he's expecting to hear. Maybe condolences, maybe a snide comment, maybe a lame attempt at a joke to lighten the mood. He's certainly not expecting what he hears, which is:

"Can you get drunk?"

"I – I don't actually know." Derek says. "I've never tried."

"We're gonna try." Stiles says, and turns decisively on his heel. Derek, somehow, doesn't want to walk away from the newspaper and its neat little Times New Roman date across the top. The longer he stays in this moment, the more time the universe has to admit this is a prank. Some sort of sick joke, or a misprinted newspaper. He check the local paper, a shelf down, just to be sure. But this is real – nine long years in exile, waiting to... what? To fade? To die? To earn his way back?

He takes a deep, steadying breath, which doesn't help, and turns to follow Stiles. There's a quiet mantra of ' _this is a bad idea, this is a bad idea, this is a bad idea_ ' playing in the back of Derek's head, but he's too shocked-out to listen. Well, no. That's a lie. He could listen, and he would, but he really doesn't want to. So instead, he comes up beside Stiles, who regards the liquor selection with mild disdain.

"Beer is inefficient." He tells Derek, who hasn't asked. "And so are mixers. I'm just trying to choose something that won't offend your delicate sensibilities."

Derek thinks about Cora's dad, pouring from a bottle of Jack and telling her ' _Maybe I'll share when you're older._ '

"Not whiskey." He says. He shoves his hands in his pockets, so Stiles won't see them shake.

"Fuck it." Stiles sighs, and grabs a bottle of vodka off the top shelf. Derek knows just enough about buying alcohol to be flattered.

"What are you going to do if Diego cards you?" Derek asks, trying to pretend he's not falling apart. It's a fair question. Stiles has one of those faces where he could be 17 or 27, it's hard to be sure.

"I'll show him my ID." Stiles says, incredulous

"You have an ID?"

"I mean, it's fake, obviously." Stiles scoffs. "I sell a lot of those, too."

"Are they good fakes?" Derek asks as they come up to the counter.

"Depends on what they give me." Stiles laughs, passing over a few bills and what's likely an impeccable fake California ID.

He's not unaffected by the irony of discussing Stiles' fake ID in front of Diego – but seeing people like him or Stiles, really seeing them, is a rare gift, and Diego doesn't have it. He rings them up without a word, and promptly forgets they're there.

They make for Derek's picnic bench out of sheer habit, and Derek takes a seat directly opposite Stiles, staring at the bottle in his hand. This is, without question, the worst possible way to deal with the sinking, crashing feeling in his chest. It feels like something is collapsing in there. But he sort of wants to burn it out. 

"So you've never drank before, or never gotten drunk?" Stiles asks, twisting the cap off.

"I mean, we go places." He sighs, thinking back, "And if someone sees you, you blend in. So, y'know, a beer at a bar, glass of champagne at a wedding, that sort of thing. I don't really remember, it's been a while." He stares at Stiles a moment longer. "You didn't get cups."

"I can't get sick." Stiles says, and takes a swig directly from the bottle. "I saw that rich dude give you money, if it really bothers you, go get them yourself."

Derek shrugs, takes the bottle, and drinks.

It does burn, sort of. It also tastes horrible, like nail polish remover. He has enough composure not to choke, but his face must give him away – Stiles' eyes are twinkling, bright and amused. He grins, but stays silent as he takes the bottle back.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks.

"No."

"That's fair." Stiles says, and drinks again.

Derek's chest is hot and his throat burns, but everything else seems normal. It probably doesn't work this fast. He feels a little bold anyway. "What's the worst deal you've ever done?"

"Define 'worst.'"

Derek thinks for a moment, knowing the definition is important. "The one that I'd feel most bad about."

Stiles snorts and shakes his head. 

"I love that you think that's how to find the worst thing I've done." He taps his fingers against the bench a few times. "Why do you want to know?"

Another unspoken deal. Derek's good at recognizing them, now. Stiles will trade his secrets for Derek's, and has the grace to make it _feel_ like it's not a transaction. But he can't help but see the exchange, and won't look away from the fact that he's bargaining with a force he doesn't understand. Derek's been at this rest stop for how long, now, with Stiles? Trying to understand if the 'demon' part of his name is just a name, the way the 'angel' part of his name is. Trying to see if there's malice behind those brown eyes, or if Stiles is something else entirely, divorced from morality, wild, powerful, mischievous.

Derek takes the bottle back and drinks, knocking his teeth against the glass, before he responds. "I've been here a while, you're over here all the time, I just... need to know what I'm getting into." He watches Stiles carefully as he speaks, and Stiles' face flickers through emotions, offended, hopeful, and something simmering that Derek can't or won't parse before it settles back into careful neutrality.

"I've traded for souls before – I know you don't like that." Stiles says at once, like he's ripping off a bandage. "There were four – one for love, two to protect other people, one for wealth. That last one didn't end well, but I don't know what she expected." He shrugs. "I've, ah, assisted people who don't want to be here any longer. You'd be surprised what people will give for a painless death. I've been instrumental in a few revenge plots. No one's gotten killed, but I think it's only a matter of time." Stiles reaches for the bottle, and Derek passes it over in silence, but he doesn't drink. Just picks at the label with his thumbnail, eyes unfocused over Derek's shoulder.

"I'm not exactly polite company." Stiles admits. "But in my defense, I don't always have a choice."

"You have to give people what they ask for?"

"If they make a fair deal. I don't always have to _tell_ people what a fair deal is, but if they can work it out for themselves – or waltz in here, offering up their damn souls – there's not a lot I can do." He nods to the interchange, where traffic whizzes by, on-and-off the ramps to the rest stop and beyond. "Contractual obligations."

"You didn't..." Derek's not sure he wants to finish the question.

"Sell my soul in a past life to get stuck here?" Stiles asks, then laughs. "I absolutely did. 

"What the _fuck_ did you get that was worth a _soul_?"

"I shouldn't tell you, since you're keeping secrets." Stiles chides him.

"I thought you said that was fair." Derek reminds him. "And anyway, you love telling people things."

"This is true." Stiles laughs. "It's been a while, though. I… well, you know, I've died since, then, stuff gets blurry."

"You don't remember?" Derek asks. He wasn't anything, before he was a guardian. Not that he knows of, at least. It's hard to imagine forgetting such an enormous part of his life. He takes another drink, a long pull - maybe he's getting used to it, since it doesn't burn much at all.

"It was for other people, if that helps." Stiles says. "I don’t know all the details anymore, but my family - my _dad_ \- and my friends were in danger. I was able to save them."  
  
"Must have been some trouble, to cost a soul." Derek observes.

"Must have been." Stiles agrees. "I died for it, too - most of the time, you sell a soul, they wait to collect. But nope, that was it for me, on the spot."

"And you don't know why?"

"I know it was worth it." Stiles says, fervently. "Wherever they are, they're safe because of me. And this life, it's not so bad most of the time." He shrugged. "Hard to have regrets."

Derek looks at the bottle. His head is crystal clear, hands almost steady. "I don't think I can get drunk." He admits.

"Yeah, but this worked anyway, didn't it?" Stiles asks. "Focus on something else for a while, get yourself under control." He wraps one long fingered hand around the neck of the bottle, and, without warning, flings it over Derek's shoulder, into the scrub beyond. He turns to watch it arc delicately through the air, streaming vodka, before it strikes the dust and shatters.

"You're really, deeply weird." Derek says.

"It makes your life more interesting." Stiles says, and he's not wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they drink, but it doesn't work because they're not, y'know, people. not human people, at least.
> 
> there's a blink-and-you'll miss it, oblique reference to suicide that's all off-screen and doesn't concern any main characters. basically, stiles mentions that he's been asked to assist with suicides before and is contractually obligated to do so. 
> 
> please note that all chapters AFTER this one were written after having read/watched Good Omens, and I can't be held responsible for whether that influences me.
> 
> also, bet you thought I wasn't gonna update this again, to which I say: bitch me too, but here we are.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few small content warnings - please see end notes for details if you anticipate an issue!

Derek has always been a big fan of boundaries. Boundaries between his charges and the outside world, boundaries between his charges and himself, even internal boundaries - especially since the fire. Keeping a strict set of personal rules has given him just enough structure to get by.

All of those boundaries are coming apart at the seams.

The slow unravelling began a long time ago - the day he set foot in the rest stop, or maybe the day of the fire itself. But it starts in earnest about three days after Stiles tries to get him drunk on a picnic bench. It's been a slow day, muggy and overcast, and there aren't a lot of motorists out on the road. The wind is sluggish and hot against his skin, and while it doesn't really bother him (physical forms are more of a convenience than a requirement) he can't say he enjoys it.

The logical solution is, of course, to go inside. The convenience store is closest to his bench, Luanne is working today and she always spares him a kind word. He has that crumpled-up $50 from the man in the Jag, he could buy a cold drink.

But he doesn't go to the convenience store. He counts cars in the parking lot, and, satisfied that they don't have any company, makes for the Subway.

When he steps inside, a few things happen in perfect unison. The bell above the door dings. Casey tucks her phone _under_ the counter in a half-hearted attempt at professionalism (but continues texting, which ruins the illusion). And Stiles, who has apparently been building a pyramid of paper cups on his corner table, is so surprised that he topples the whole structure. Several dozen cups scatter over the floor, making hollow sounds as they bounce, then roll in all directions. Derek laughs, in spite of himself.

"That's just embarrassing." Derek says, bending over to collect a few stray cups. "What kind of first impression is that? Imagine if I'd been a customer." He shakes his head in mock-disapproval.

"Don't threaten me with a good time." Stiles says, levelling an accusatory finger at him. "This is your fault, so you can clean it up."  
  
"At least help." Derek chides. Stiles sighs, but the cups on the floor begin rolling towards him, untouched, and he collects them into a neat stack. "Thank you."

The last cup is tapping against his ankle like an anxious puppy, and he slides it into the stack before dropping it on Stiles' table with a resolute _pop_. Then he sits down at the table across the aisle, like he did that first day.

"Any requests?" Stiles asks idly.

"None." Derek confirms. Stiles turns to study him for a long moment, fingers skating restlessly over the vinyl of his table's top.

"Are you gonna buy a sandwich?"

"Probably not."

Stiles makes a face. "I know you're not here for the pleasure of my company."  
  
"It's a mystery." Derek says, like he's agreeing, but he's not. Guardians work alone, the solitude is almost absolute. It's been worse, since the fire, and company of any kind is welcome. Even Stiles. Especially Stiles.

"Did I ever tell you about the time that middle school marching band came through here?"

"No, you never have." Derek says, and settles in for a story.

That's his first big boundary down. He spends the rest of the day in Subway with Stiles. They're silent for most of it, to be perfectly honest, occasionally swapping stories or teasing one another. No one shows up for anything but a sandwich, and no one makes much of two guys sitting in a restaurant. Shift switch comes, Casey goes, and they stay in their corner. When the Subway closes, they walk out shoulder-to-shoulder, Stiles still in the middle of his story - apparently, a few years ago, a 'controlled burn' had gotten out of control, and Stiles had needed to use some creative thinking to redirect it around the rest stop.

"And away from the road, right?" Derek asks.

"It's a _road_ , Derek, it's not going to burn." Stiles scoffs. "Besides, any idiot who drives towards a wildfire should probably expect a little risk."  
  
"I'm just saying, you could have kept it away from the road, too." Derek points out as they settle onto the bench, leaving the agreement to stick together unspoken.

"It was all I could do to keep it off the gas tanks behind the convenience store." Stiles laughs. "The road was on its own."

Stiles keeps talking, explaining how the brush around the rest stop had smoldered for days, but takes a long moment to arrange himself into a comfortable position on the bench. He never sits in it like a normal person, always hitching up one knee, or straddling the bench, or lying sideways across its length. Today, he has one foot planted on the bench, and the other under the table, and hugs his bent leg to rest his chin on his knee. Derek tries not to find it endearing.

"Well, at least no one got hurt." Derek says.

"I'm not entirely heartless." Stiles reminds him, grinning fiercely. He kicks Derek under the table, just enough to sting, and Derek nudges the sole of his sneaker, a gentle rebuke. They lapse into a comfortable silence as the cars hum along the highway.

\--

Stiles disappears sometime in the night - Derek never really questions this - and he watches the sun rise alone, painting the scrub around the rest stop fresh and clean. Derek thinks about wildfires, scorching the earth, reducing the plantlife to nutritious dust. He thinks about shoots, valiant and green, pushing up through the ash to bask in the sun.

When Diego arrives to open the convenience store, Derek pulls the fifty dollar bill from his pocket. He's never carried cash before, he's never needed to. It's liable to get lost if he doesn't spend it soon. He smooths out the rumpled paper on the picnic table's edge, then folds it neatly and heads inside.

Diego gives him a perfunctory nod as he walks in, then turns back to the security feed on the monitor in the corner.

Derek bustles through the aisles, collecting an item here, an item there, doing a bit of mental math to ensure he stays within his first-ever budget. He wishes, for the first and probably last time, that the convenience store provided little baskets for his shopping convenience.

Once he's combed through the aisles, he takes a second pass, returning superfluous items and adding to the precarious stack in his arms as he feels is necessary. Shopping is an art, and not one he's mastered, so he relies on his instincts and hopes that they're trustworthy. It's a moment of truth, then, returning to the front counter, arms laden with odds and ends. On the counter is a mat, showing various scratchcards, and he unloads his loot carefully over the promise of riches.

In the end, he winds up with a basic tool set, the makings of a decent first aid kit, a deck of cards, and a navy blue drawstring bag to hold it all. Diego rings it up without seeming to look at it, talking vaguely about the previous day's baseball game. The total rings up to $49.53, and Derek drops his spare change in the take-a-penny-leave-a-penny-to-benefit-veterans by the register.

"Thanks, man." Diego says, surprisingly genuine, and Derek smiles at him. Under the counter, one of Diego's legs is made of aluminum and polypropylene. Derek's surprised he hadn't noticed before.

He waves off Diego's offer of a plastic bag and loads most of his goods into the drawstring, then steps outdoors and shoulders the bag. All his purchases are inside, except the deck of Bicycle cards, which he's turning half-nervously in his palm. It's at least 10:00 AM, because the Subway is open, and he makes his way across the parking lot, cards spinning and spinning and spinning in his hand.

Again, the bell tolls as he enters, and Casey hides her phone, and Stiles' motion arrests to watch him cover the distance between them.

"Back again?" Stiles asks, in what Derek assumes is supposed to be a casual voice.

"So it would seem." Derek says, tucking himself into the booth across the aisle from Stiles. There's a long moment of silence. "Maybe I'm lost." He adds.

"Maybe." Stiles echoes.

They're no strangers to companionable silence, so Derek lets it sit of an immeasurable moment before carefully, wordlessly placing the pack of cards on the table.

Stiles takes the bait. "What do you have there?" He asks, as if the red-and-white box isn't obvious.

"Pack of cards." Derek says, noncommittally. Then: "I thought you might want to play."

"What are the stakes?" Stiles asks, perking up at once.

"No betting games." Derek says in his flattest voice. To his credit, Stiles only deflates a little bit.

"You’d better come over here, at least." Stiles says by way of reply, inclining his head to the seat across the table. Derek stares at the fake-wood tiles between them, the careful neutral space between his table and Stiles'.

"I'd have to keep an eye on the door for you." Derek says. "In case any customers come through." Stiles smiles like he's already won - and he has. A moment later, Derek swaps spots smoothly, until there's only a tiny Subway table between them. Beneath it, their knees knock against the table legs, and each other.

Derek deals Stiles seven cards, himself seven cards, and then smears the deck into a rough circle on the tabletop.

"Go Fish?" Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No betting games." Derek reminds him, arranging his hand in numbered order. "Got any sevens?"

"Go fish." Stiles says with his best shit-eating grin. He hasn't even picked up his hand yet.

"Bullshit." Derek says. Stiles peeks at his cards.

 "Actually, it's not." He says, and nods to the pile.

"Good to know." Derek says, laying down two sevens without drawing a card. Stiles kicks him under the table.

It is, potentially, the worst and weirdest game of Go Fish ever played. The cards he requests from Stiles are rarely related to the cards in his hand. He hoards matches without laying them down, and counts cards left in the pool. When no one's gotten a single Jack, he steals Stiles' to better his chances of matching. When Stiles asks about a card he has, he's more likely to lay down a match than hand it over. None of this, strictly speaking, follows the rules for Go Fish, but it does make things more interesting.

It takes Stiles a few rounds to catch on, and he starts playing a game of his own. Derek is about 65% sure what cards are in Stiles' hand at any given time, and what's left in the pool, and what's likely to be drawn. Stiles is less careful and calculated, focused on creating absolute chaos to throw off the card-counting. Derek gets the sense that he's more interested in not letting Derek win than he is in winning himself.

Derek wins the first game anyway.

"Rematch." Stiles demands.

Derek laughs, and gathers the cards into a pile, shuffling them for the next game, when the bell above the door dings. He watches a woman come in, purse tucked close against her shoulder. She casts a significant look in their direction before going to the counter to order.

Derek's second boundary concerns Stiles' purpose in the Subway - intermediary between the infernal powers and the desires of mankind. Glorified drug dealer. The opposite of what a good Guardian gets tangled up with. Derek finds himself uncomfortably close to being tangled up.

"She's a regular." Stiles murmurs when he catches Derek staring. "I understand if you want to, you know, step out."

Derek does. He stands just outside the door, watching a hawk wheel over the highway, until the woman leaves.

This is a regular problem. Two more people stop by that day, and another handful the next day. There was a time when Derek was a paragon, and would have stood outside like a statue, waiting. There was a time when Derek never would have been inside the Subway at all, not while Stiles was around.

Those times are over. On the third day, when a kid in a baja shows up, Derek just switches tables, so the kid has somewhere to sit, and deals himself a game of solitaire.

"You don't have to stay." Stiles reminds him. He just shrugs.

And that's another boundary down.

There are a lot of drug deals. Most of the minor ones go off without a hitch, and Derek doesn't feel the need to step in over a weekend's worth of weed. Stiles' literal inability to say no to a fair deal puts Derek in a complicated position, morally speaking, when things get more serious.

Generally, Stiles' patrons don't notice Derek – like most Guardians, he fades into the background for all but the most observant humans, and generally, that suits him. But if he starts interacting with people, well, it's not like they can ignore him shouting in their ear. Any time someone mentions roofies, Derek causes a scene before they can strike a bargain. Particularly destructive or dangerous requests get the same treatment. People buying drugs from a mysterious kid in a Subway are generally pretty paranoid, so it's not difficult to scare them off. Stiles just shrugs and watches them go.

The third time it happens, it's a tall, seedy looking dude who asked about the potency of Stiles' ketamine. Derek decides the simplest thing to do is pretend to be Stiles' supplier, so he rolls up his sleeves and stands up, grabbing the dude roughly by the shoulder. He startles – he hadn't noticed Derek before – and starts stammering. "You questioning my quality?" He asks, leaning hard into the guy. Across the table, Stiles' face is a mask of wordless glee. "You know what? You're not welcome here, let me help you up." Derek says, shifting his hand to the man's elbow. He's already scrambling up, saying something that sounds like an apology, and Derek walks him briskly to the door.

"And you spread the word – he's _closed_ for that shit, I'm cutting him off!" He shouts at the man's back and he makes his retreat. He hopes it'll turn into a rumor, keep people from asking at all.

He expects a conversation when he gets back to the table, but Stiles seems to have composed himself, and is arranging their cards neatly on the table.

Later that night, they're sitting on their bench after the Subway has closed. Stiles is quiet, and Derek is studying the way passing headlights tangle themselves in his hair.

"I appreciate it, you know." He says, softly, without context. It takes Derek almost a full ten seconds to understand what Stiles means.

"Not to be rude, but I don't do it for you." Derek says as gently as he can.

"I know, but still." Stiles' hands are in his lap, fidgeting. "I can't say no to a fair deal, but that doesn't mean I _like_ it."

"Happy to be of service." Derek laughs, and Stiles shoves his shoulder. 

"Just doing your job, what a good solider." He laughs.

Occasionally, a would-be dealer shows up, looking for product to sell. When it comes to high-volume requests like that, Stiles stops accepting money, and starts looking for more esoteric trades. For discretion's sake, he's generally pretty coy about the fact that he's a supernatural entity, not a kingpin. Derek doesn't like to make a scene with this type - he never knows if they'll be armed, and he doesn't want the Subway employees caught in the crossfire - so he lets them figure it out for themselves. Some of them never realize what's going on, and just leave swearing, no doubt to complain about the supplier who wouldn't take their money.

The human mind is fairly inflexible, but most people grew up on a variation of Stiles' story – the devil went down to Georgia, Dr. Faust and Mephistopheles. Sometimes, when Stiles asks them what they value most, they put two and two together.

The first time it happens, the dealer – sporting a crucifix necklace, no less – just stands abruptly and leaves, crossing himself and muttering. A week later, another comes in, realizes what's happening, excuses himself to the bathroom for six minutes, and comes back to the table ready to bargain. In the end, he's not willing to meet Stiles' price. Derek watches with as much disaffection as he can.

Then there are the people chasing rumors, who want something other than a chemical high. "This is going to sound crazy…" they say, and then launch into some convolution game of Who's Who - no one ever hears about Stiles firsthand. It's always from a sister's best friend's niece or a dude at a truck stop who had run into _another_ dude at a truck stop.

Their requests are stranger, and often sadder. They come looking for love, solace, absolution. They arrive, deeply broken, and Derek feels for them, and clenches his fists as they talk, unable to help. They rarely leave any happier than they arrive. Often, it's the same issue - they can't meet Stiles' price.

Still, sometimes it's… Okay. One afternoon, he spends two and a half hours talking to a woman who's recent lost her husband. Stiles offers to heal her pain by taking away her memories of him, but she's not willing to give them up. There's a bench outside the Subway, where the employees take smoke breaks, and there, she cries on Derek's shoulder, and he holds her hand.

"They keep telling me," she sniffs, "that he wouldn't want me to be sad. I hate that. I am sad. It just makes me feel like I'm disappointing him."

"You're going to be sad." He says, rubbing the heel of his hand between her shoulderblades. "You can't stop feeling it. But you'll learn to live around it." He says, and she contemplates that in silence for a long time.

When she finally goes – wringing his hand, thanking him profusely, apologizing for crying all over his shirt – Stiles mysteriously reappears.

"That was good advice you gave her." He says meaningfully.

"Yeah, well, kinda my job." Derek says, pretending to be distracted by cleaning up the woman's tissues. "I didn't realize you could hear all that." 

"I'm more curious as to whether _you_ heard all that." Stiles says with a raised eyebrow. "I don't think you were really listening."

"It's different for us." He says. "She's a person, she can have a life. I'm not made for that." He shrugs. "I just wish I could, you know, miracle her better."

"Speaking of." Stiles says. There's a moment's silence. Stiles takes a long, steadying breath, and then another. "I've been thinking."

"That can't be good." Derek jokes, but when he turns to look, Stiles' face is drawn and serious. "What's going on?"

"What if I could help you?" Stiles asks. "Find out what's going on with your, ah, work situation?"

"How would you do that? Do you have a phone number I don't know about?"

"No, but I'm fairly certain I could bring another Guardian here. If you wanted." He offers. 

"I spent my $50." Derek says. "I don't think I can afford that kind of favor."

"You know it's not just money." Stiles admonishes. "And I... Look. It's not always about giving up something permanently, you know that. Sometimes it's another kind of sacrifice."

"What did you have in mind?" Derek asks, torn between curiosity and revulsion. 

"Your story." Stiles says solemnly. "I can bring another Guardian here for you to talk to in exchange for the story of what happened to your last charges." He must notice the look on Derek's face. "I know, I know, but – it's a fair exchange. It'll work."

Derek stares at his folded hands in his lap. He can't think of a single thing to say.

"Just promise me you'll think about it?" Stiles asks. When Derek doesn't respond, he drops a hand on Derek's shoulder and squeezes, then turns around and disappears back inside.

The heat of Stiles' hand seems to linger there, and he's uncomfortably aware of his shoulder for the rest of the night.

\--

When he comes back to the restaurant the next morning, Stiles is a little more watchful than usual. Derek tries to ignore it, tries to keep him distracted with fast-paced card games and stories about errant travelers. But Stiles' offer is heavy in the air between them, and he's never quite free of its weight.

Late afternoon light is slanting through the windows, and they've lapsed into silence, when Stiles  pipes up: "I shouldn't ask, right?"

"Right." Derek confirms. 

But they never quite settle back into comfortable conversation. When Derek gets up to leave the Subway, Stiles stays seated, giving a little finger-wave without picking his hand up from the table.

Derek spends the whole night turning the situation over and over in his mind. The interminable stretch of years between the fire and this night, with the hot, close press of the desert around him and the aching emptiness of being chargeless. He's done this for so long. He could keep doing it, probably. Until the last vestiges of power winked out and then - whatever came next.

But he doesn't have to.

The thought of making a deal with Stiles, just on principle, makes his skin crawl. But hasn't Stiles proved to be, if not a paragon, at least better than expected? Derek himself is no angel, it's just his job. And this is Stiles' job, too.

He stares at the stars, contemplating, again, his boundaries.

The next morning, Derek hauls himself to his feet and, before he can think too hard about what he's doing, heads for Subway. Stiles seems surprised to see him when he collapses into the seat opposite and takes a deep, steadying breath.

"They were the Hales." He says, and when Stiles sits up to speak, gestures for silence.

"I was assigned to the father, Eric, just before he married Talia." He smiles, in spite of himself, and shakes his head ruefully. "The wedding was incredible, I've never been in a room more full of love. Their families came from around the world, everyone was dancing and laughing, really, I think they were born for each other.

"Eric was a lawyer, I think he was caught up in a sticky organized crime case when I first arrived. I think that's why I was there." He says. "I was proactive about that, just nudged a few of their members onto a more righteous path. And got a few others arrested, just to keep them off the streets." He shrugs. "It was the tidiest solution."

The intervening years, when Eric and Talia had travelled extensively, were golden. He'd travelled Europe, just out of their sight, drinking sweet wines and wandering mountains. But that wasn't the real story - the real story started when Talia took a cheap pregnancy test in a hostel bathroom in Madrid and they rushed home, laughing the whole way.

"They had a baby. Her name was Cora and she was a spitfire right from the start. Nobody could tell her what to do. And as soon as she learned what it was, she wanted to be a doctor and save people. She was smart, she'd have done it."

Derek has tried, over the years, not to think about what Cora's future would have been like. He's succeeded most of the time, but the nights he's failed have all been terrible.

"And then there was the fire."

"Was it the mob?" Stiles asks.

"What?" Derek asks, aghast. "No, it was the dryer. They weren't _murdered_ , they just..." He heaves a sigh. "I was with Cora. Her room was upstairs, and she was learning to read, and she was reading to her stuffed animals, so I stuck around to listen. Tried to help, when I could."

He can still remember the thin blue glow of her little reading lamp, working through a fairy tale collection with fake gold leaf on the pages. She'd been struggling with the longer words, but she _believed_ she could do it. It really only took a little nudge on Derek's part to keep her going.

And downstairs, in the first-floor laundry, all the linens had been burning.

"I didn't notice the fire, Talia did. She came bursting into the room, and I tried to get them out, get them all out. But the fire was on the staircase, and the smoke, and the heat, I-"

It's like being back there again. The thick air and flames hadn't phased him, but the Hales were coughing, hacking, shying away from the fire on the staircase even as he urged them forward. By the time he forced them through, it had been too late.

"Eric and Talia, they died that night." He says "Eric on the scene – he took the worst of it, carrying Cora down the stairs – and then Talia at the hospital a few hours later." He isn't crying, exactly, but he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes anyway, and takes a steadying breath. It's easier with his eyes covered. He doesn't move before he speaks again: "Cora held on for two more days, but it was the smoke inhalation that got her, in the end."

"Jesus Christ." Stiles hisses.

"I... don't think you're supposed to say that." Derek says. It wasn't a joke, but Stiles laughs anyway, his voice hollowed-out and scratchy.

"I don't have anything else to say." He says. "Get up."

Derek stays seated, face still buried in his hands.

"Seriously, get up." Stiles says, tugging at his elbow. Derek pulls his hands away reluctantly and lets Stiles drag him to his feet. He thinks, maybe, he's going to get a hug. His first hug in _years_. Despite the awful pit in the center of his chest, he's looking forward to it.

Instead, Stiles drags him down the aisle, to the door, and out of the Subway entirely.

Standing in the middle of the rest stop, looking very confused, is a middle aged man in a wrinkled polyester suit.

"Did it have to be now?" Derek asks, fighting for composure.

"I don't make the rules." Stiles says grimly. "I'd have warned you, if I had the chance."

Derek sets his shoulders, takes a steadying breath, and crosses the parking lot, to where the other Guardian is wandering between the gas pumps with a furrowed brow. He turns, catches sight of Derek, and seems to relax.

"Oh good." He says, offering a hand to shake. "I'm Raymond, maybe you can tell me why I'm here."

"Derek." He says. "I think... It's a bit of intervention, if you know what I mean." He says significantly. He hopes that leaving 'divine' out isn't conspicuous. "I have a couple of questions, if you have a few minutes."

"Well," says Raymond. "I can't see why not. That's the job. What do you need?" 

"You seem like a pretty experienced guy." Derek says. He's met humans like this before, and they love it when you're genial with them. "How long, would you say, is typical between assignments?"

"Oh, it really depends." Raymond says knowledgeably. "Sometimes you get your charge to where they need to be in their life, and then off you go. After a death, you know, we usually get some time off. Their lives -" Raymond pauses to sigh dramatically "- are just so short, in the end."

"So it's normal to spend time between charges, after a death?" Derek clarifies.

"Oh, yes, dear me." Raymond says. "Have you lost someone? I'm so sorry."

"Thank you." Derek says flatly. "I've, you know, had some time to process it."

"Then I expect you'll be getting a new charge any day now." Raymond says imperiously. "You'll feel the pull and then – off you'll go!" He looks around, craning his neck to read the 'Jacob Campbell Southbound Rest Stop' sign. "You wouldn't happen to know exactly where we are, would you?" He asks.

"What's a usual amount of time to get off? I get the sense mine might be, you know, a little longer than usual." Derek says. Ignoring Raymond's question seems like the safest bet.

"Oh, I've heard of... weeks, I suppose. Maybe even a month. I wouldn't worry about it too much." Raymond said, waving a dismissive hand. He's beginning to shuffle his feet.

"Years?" Derek asks.

"Years, I-" Raymond's suddenly very, very still. "Well, no, I haven't heard of anyone spending _years_ between charges, that's-" He narrows his eyes at Derek. "It does seem longer without them, doesn't it?" He asks. "I'm sure you're just miscounting."

"Nine years, give or take." Derek corrects. Raymond takes a small, but significant step back, and he's close to losing his temper. "I assume that's unusual."

" _Highly_ unusual." Raymond agrees. "How, exactly, did you bring me here?"

"That's not important." Derek says briskly. "We're on the same team, right? In the same business? So I think you and I should be helping each other out."

"And what is it you need help with?" Raymond's voice shakes. Derek is surprised to find that he's bothered by this. Guardians are meant to be valiant, protective, or at least have some semblance of a spine. And while they largely work alone, certainly they're all on the same side. Certainly they should be in one another's corners. Certainly it's not too much to ask that his brother-in-arms give a damn about him.

"I've been stranded, without charges and without power, for nine years." Derek says, surprised to hear his voice go low and dangerous. "I'm not asking for help, I'm telling you: whoever you see, wherever you go, you make sure they know where I am, and what's happened to me."

"I'll certainly be mentioning this." Raymond says icily. "To anyone I see."

"That's all I ask." Derek manages to say through gritted teeth. Things weren't supposed to go this way. He'd imagined it so many times and he was always… Better. More eloquent, more certain, more compelling. Instead, he's barely containing his anger, and Raymond - whose form is starting to shiver like a mirage - thinks he's unhinged. 

He may be right.

There's a distant sound like microphone feedback, and Raymond turns over his shoulder, looking at something Derek can't see. He wheels back and says something, but his voice is dim and distorted, and Derek can't make it out.

And then he's gone.

Derek's hands are shaking when he turns and is utterly unsurprised to find Stiles' whiskey-brown eyes a heartbeat away.

"Dude, that was awesome." Stiles breathes. "I didn't think you could get pissed at anyone like that. I'm starting to think you've never actually been mad at me."

"Stiles."

"Seriously, though, I think he's going to have to help you, now, you're too damn intimidating."

"Stiles." 

"Does it feel good? I feel like you've been wanting to do that for a while now."

" _Stiles_." Derek says, emphatic.

"Yeah?"

"I think... I need a few minutes." He says. 

They're not human. Having a physical form is more of a convenience than a necessity. He's stayed grounded in one, as a matter of practicality, since the fire. It makes keeping track of time easier. Having a body is just another boundary. Derek takes a deep breath, and lets his go. =

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ope. It's an update! It's happening! I'm not... 100% happy with the dialogue in this chapter and may end up doing some revising later. But it's done, dammit, so up it goes. 
> 
> Also - more mentions of drugs, including drugs commonly used for date rape. None of them are actually sold to anyone or used within the story, but if it's something you're sensitive to, just know it's mentioned!

**Author's Note:**

> This is only vaguely proofread and completely unbetaed. Sorry!
> 
> bleep0bleep's (sfw) prompt generator gave me rest stop + angels and demons + secret admirer, and this is where we're at. Rest stop begged for crossroads demons, and I just can't see Derek as a straight-up angel. Too many guilt issues. Also - I understand that Supernatural has crossroads demons, but as someone who has never watched Supernatural, I'm just making stuff up. This is a deeply weird concept. Results may vary.
> 
> A story in four parts.  
> I'm dappledawndrawn on Tumblr as well. Come hang out.


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